Kowtow & kapow..the Bazball supernova
They think it’s all over…well wow it is now
Cool cat merriment to cricket’s detriment
Down tools school for fools experiment
Mules without rules serious impediment
Flunk their funk mission to debunk tradition
Teach each Baz monk flair pizzazz edition
Preach razmattazz and all that jazz sedition
Slam dunk sunk kerplunk fans in remission
Shan’t exult this odd bod Bazball adult cult
Can’t halt Starc’s hefty lefty catapult assault
Another hilarious result and nefarious insult
Inquests as Aussie test conquests take their toll
Pat patrol in control Ben’s men droll rigmarole
Stole our soul so gonna give them some vitriol
Banished to a grassy knole the Bazball totem pole
Farce whole brassy class vanished up their ar*ehole
No need to mull it is time for a cull heads must roll
Cos in Oz they Can’t bat Can’t field and Can’t bowl
However flash need a dash of humility
Whenever rash need a splash of civility
If ever brash need panache & nobility
However much ability can be a liability
Forever a proclivity for mental fragility
Senility forget the limits of their capability
When you flunk debunk the junk of hostility
Abash at that dash and lash was just trash
To really become cricketing divinity for infinity
If you blow make a hash of it show a bit of humility
Don't be amazed by what I am about to say.
We all dream, like we all breathe. The day,
That we don't do so, is when we are no longer.
We're gone with the wind, done, and we are
Sunk, flunk in the quick sand; we died in the war.
We're nobody, deceased; and there's no future.
No more dreaming...
We all dream; nobody really knows where dreams
Come from. Dreams just happened, fled like steams,
Appeared and disappeared like the errant clouds.
We dream all night long, sometimes we remember
Them; most of the time we forget them. The crowds
Can't forget the star; like the chorus, and the master.
We all dream night and day, while standing or sitting.
We all dream while resting, but don't remember a thing.
We all dream of a better life, and a better spouse.
We all dream of a nicer car, and a bigger house.
We all dream of better days and a better tomorrow.
We dream of better health, more fun, joy, and less sorrow
And better everything and much better living.
Copyright © February 2016 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
{"I convicted myself into a death sentence when it came to dote on, bear the witnesses because they saw me alleviate the tears nobody had reconciled or dared to wipe away; they simply did not.
The smoke is flaming inside of me, and it isn’t dwelling away or even sufficing. They replenish my lungs in exasperation as I flunk to inhale a tad bit of reinvigorated air.
You slaughtered me in a way nobody has. Whereas now they beg for the forgiveness of the broken. They measly take a stand and testify against it. I whisper to myself like a madman, for you shan’t be convicted of manslaughter, and I shan’t forgive you in any way probable.
Your actions don’t merit punishment behind bars,
you deserve death as I have reached my own demise a million times over; bear the burden I have felt, one that cannot slide open the portico and make a legitimate run for it. I let it in me, fused it, relived it.
I inhaled the smoke of a Cigar and let it ruin me all in all, then I testified against all odds;
‘It is what it is.’"}
Have you ever been drunk,
and submersed in a funk,
as if trapped in a trunk
but then asked to write junk
in a poem which stunk
though your mind has been shrunk
by a psychotic monk
who’s been beaten punch-drunk
and if not a slam dunk
as a poet you’ll flunk?
Now who would've thunk ...
The Supreme 6-pack would flunk ...
Simply True or False.
Spring of life for many reasons
That thrive by coming of the seasons
A tall grass in shiny gray bark
Rings of scar serve as its mark
From its leaf down to its trunk
The worth of its parts will not flunk
An all purpose tool, fair and bright
A charming frill, a deep delight
A leaf that makes an artful faith
It wipes the ground like clean slate
For ailing soul, it is a cure
A fine refreshment, clean and pure
Not animal but has a meat
Its husk can make the tile floor neat
Its holy water cleanses the spirit
Drinking from it is a healthy habit
Coconuts poetry contest
8th place
Afore the dusk
My soul's frail, lone, and goner
Sadness cover' me like a busk
Concern' who's to be the new coiner?
While only nix available was flunk
Onset of the defunct night.
I falter in gripe on the cot
Just as a caged cat surround' by rats
My soul start' roving around the spot
The air taken began choking
As helpless baby, my elephant was on squat
I thought the defunct bell was ringing.
After a deep sleep
I woke to get myself in fear
Enclos' by bystanders in weep
My floor fill' with drops of rain
Us' as arctic for the high degrees
All were mysteries of the defunct night.
Higgins was the worst Math teacher,
and that year I was his worse student.
Higgins had loose blubbery lips.
When he taught long division or algebra
his words were full of spit
and phlegm.
Higgins had big feet and he carried a large
thick-soled sneaker
which he threw at slow thinkers
It hurt
especially if hit by it 3 times in one lesson,
especially since we had to pick the damn thing up
and hand it back to him
especially when he loomed over you glaring,
daring you to be a wiseass.
Higgins was really very big
his massive form always intimating
to young minds.
Mostly I just doodled his form
on my school math book.
Happy to flunk any test of his.
Once I drew him naked,
his fat backside bouncing on the back
of a spavined mule.
Underneath this masterpiece I wrote
'It hurts don't it?'
Sadly he had snuck up behind me
too late
I felt his hot breath
drooling down the back of my neck.
Higgins was hit by a bus,
but that was years later.
When I heard
I felt sorry for the bus.
"We're connected to God through faith and Satan through fear."
Robert Hood
fallen spirits are involved
or below, looking for the culprit
any chart always fails
unless to flunk
why are we here?
but succeeds without error
is a dream
therefore, Satan was to blame
a liar and thief that roam the land
in search of souls
may he unfold
to the existing world
but who was to blame?
fantasy is never seen before
to the bared eye
who gave you this name?
you soul thief
~If this was the intention,
to Create.
In the imagination of a desperate spirit
It mustn't be
so does the mind secern the essence of its being?
If not, because none of us could
Inventions only
Imagination of existence
only demons can recur magic
This cryptic suspicion
in mind
a soul-seeking demon
so its existence
does not stop~
Written: October 24, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
They made him repeat a class,
Promising him that he would pass,
This backing up with eyeglass,
Urging him to read even on grass;
To plan always for The Big
And be willing to for it dig:
For the More-Original-than-A-Wig
And the Fruit-Promising Fig.
Then, off he just slunk
From his long-lazing bunk
Wearing the weirdest punk,
In his arms some readable junk;
Not much of the money in him sunk,
Soon again to exams flunk …
Workload had seemed Gargantuan
And he’d never been Academic Centurion;
Trust in him a Romance with Farce,
Sure again to repeat that class.
My dog ate my homework. Really he did!
‘Cause he's a bad dog and I'm a good kid!
I really love math class and my teacher's a whiz
It's truly not my fault that I flunk every quiz.
‘Cause the new math is funny. It's really a bore.
Since when did a seven become the new four?
But back to my homework ‘cause that’s where I started
It all had begun when my crazy dog farted.
So I ran from the room as though I’d been banished
And when I returned, my homework had vanished!
I did all the problems, really I did!
Remember I told you that I’m a good kid?
So that is my story and I’m sticking to it.
What bright kid like me would want to go through it?
I know that my story is really a wowzer
But just ask my dog and his name is Bowser
Trump went to the golf course today
But nobody wanted to play
When someone yelled, "Fore!"
Trump thought they yelled, "Whore!"
And proudly stood in the ball's way
Sort of
Bored of
Online
Class grind
Indoors
Abhorred
All Zoom
Pure Gloom
Outside
Denied
No Sun
No Fun
Slam Dunk
We Flunk
I quit
Let's split
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.